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He came at length on his firm, bare feet to the little gate that led to the lonely cottage, and, without pausing, passed through. The cottage door was ajar. He pushed it back and entered, closing it, even as he did so, with a backward fling of the heel. Then, in the tiny living-room, by the light of the lamp that shone in the window, he laid his burden down.

White and cold, she lay with closed eyes upon the little sofa, motionless and beautiful as a statue recumbent upon a tomb, her drenched draperies clinging about her. He stood for a second looking upon her; then, still with the absolute steadiness of set purpose, he turned and went into the inner room.

He came back with a blanket, and stooping, he lifted the limp form and, with a certain deftness that seemed a part of his immovable resolution, he wrapped it in the rough grey folds.

It was while he was doing this that a sudden sigh came from between the parted lips, and the closed eyes flashed open.

They gazed upon him in bewilderment, but he continued his ministrations with grim persistence and an almost bovine expression of countenance. Only when two hands came quivering out of the enveloping blanket and pushed him desperately away did he desist. He straightened himself then and turned away.

“You’ll be–all right,” he said in his deep voice.

Then Columbine started up on her elbow, clutching wildly at the blanket, drawing it close about her. The cold stillness of her was gone, as though a sudden flame had scorched her. Her face, her neck, her whole body were burning, burning.

“What–what happened?” she gasped. “You–why have you brought me–here?”

He did not look at her.

“It was the nearest place,” he said. “The Death Current caught you, and you were stunned. I got you out.”

“You–got me–out!” she repeated, saying the words slowly as if she were teaching herself a lesson.

He nodded his great head.

“Yes. I came up in time. I saw what would happen. There’s often a tidal wave about now. I thought you knew that–thought Adam would have told you. He”–his voice suddenly went a tone deeper–“knew it. I told him this morning.”

“Ah!” She uttered the word upon a swift intake of breath; her startled eyes suddenly dilated. “Where is he?” she said.

The man’s huge frame stiffened at the question; she saw his hands clench. But he kept his head turned from her; she could not see his face. There followed a pause that seemed to her fevered imagination to have something deadly in it. Then: “I hope he’s gone where he belongs,” said Rufus, with terrible deliberation.

Her cry of agony cut across his last word like the severing of a taut string. She leapt to her feet, in that moment of anguish supremely forgetful of self.

“Rufus!” she cried, and wildly gripped his arm, “You’ve never–left him–to be–killed!”

She felt his muscles harden in grim resistance to her grasp. She saw that his averted face was set like a stone mask.

“It’s none of my business,” he said, speaking through rigid lips.

She turned from him with a gasp of horror and sprang for the door. But in an instant he wheeled, thrust out a great arm, and caught her. His fingers closed upon her bare shoulder.

“Columbine!” he said.

She resisted him frantically, bending now this way, now that. But he held her in spite of it, held her, and slowly brought her nearer to him.

“Stand still!” he said.

His voice came upon her like a blow. She flinched at the sound of it–flinched and obeyed.

“Let me go!” she gasped out. “He–may be drowning–at this moment!”

“Let him drown!” said Rufus.

She lifted her tortured face in frenzied protest, but it died upon her lips. For in that moment she met his eyes, and the blazing blue of them made her feel as though spirit had been poured upon her flame, consuming her. Words failed her utterly. She stood palpitating in his hold, not breathing–a wild thing trapped.